III
Dusk was closing in on the camp at Sand Creek, which marked the temporary residence of the convict laborers engaged in blasting a State road out of the Rocky Mountains. Prisoners with good records were eligible for this interesting pastime. It was a reward of merit, and a part of the new warden's policy in the handling of his men. "Trusties" were permitted to do the work, under a strong guard.
The evening meal was over, and most of the men were loafing about in front of the bunk-house, enjoying their pipes under the eyes of the guards, while the captain in charge checked up his account-books in his small quarters, fifty yards away.
A cloud of dust rose in the growing darkness, and the whining of wheels heralded the approach of a vehicle of some sort. Presently a tall figure stepped into the circle of light by the cook-house, and was promptly challenged by a guard. A moment later there was a knock at the captain's door.
"How do you do?" said the visitor, affably. "Did the warden telephone you that I would call to see No. 1113?"
"Oh, you're the fellow, are you?" asked the captain. "Another reporter?"
The stranger glanced down at the sheaf of paper which protruded from his breast pocket.
"Well," said he, "not a reporter, exactly. I'm a sort of a special writer."
"I suppose you want to see Moran alone," the captain went on. "Let's see—your name is—?"
"Harrison," prompted the visitor. "A. L. Harrison, of Chicago. Yes, thank you, I would like to see him alone if it could be arranged."
He glanced meaningly about the small room as he spoke
"You can have him in here if you like," said the officer. "These trusties have privileges, more or less. They're picked men. I've got to walk over to the railroad-station and get some mail."
"Take my rig," said the "special writer" quickly. "The boy will drive you over."
"Thanks!" said the captain heartily. "Sorry I can't offer you anything, but it's against the rules."
The man of letters silently produced a heavy silver flask.
"I am always prepared," he said gravely. "Tell me what you think of that stuff."
The captain smacked his lips.
"Pretty fine!" he said. "Well, Mr. Harrison, make yourself at home. You won't be disturbed. I'll send Moran to you. He's over in the bunk-house reading the Bible. That's about all he does these days—that and praying. Don't get him started on religion, or he'll run all night. Funny old duck, but the best prisoner in the bunch. I wish some more of these 'cons' would get religion, if it would make 'em as easy to handle as John! "
The captain disappeared. The Great Gilmore glanced about the small, bare room, his quick eye taking in every detail. He moved one chair slightly, pulled up a second until it faced the first from the other side of the table, and taking the lantern from the peg placed it where the light would fall strongest upon the second chair and its occupant.
No sooner had he set his rude stage than a heavy step sounded on the threshold, the door swung silently open, and Convict John Moran, No. 1113, entered and closed the door behind him. Moran was short and thick-set, and the close-cropped hair over his temples was nearly white. His face, heavy, dull, and almost stupid, was deeply lined with wrinkles, and his pale gray eyes were lusterless and weary. In his left hand he carried a small black book, into which he had thrust one stubby finger as a marker.
He shook hands without a word and sat down at the table, regarding Gilmore with the steady, unblinking gaze of a tired old animal.
"I told the captain my name was Harrison," began the doctor. "This was best for many reasons. He thinks I am a newspaper man, but my name is—"
"I know you all right enough," rumbled Moran in a deep bass voice. "I saw your picture in a paper once. I thought—somehow—you'd be an older man." There was a note of disappointment in his tone.
"That," said Gilmore gently, "is a fault which time will remedy."
Moran did not answer the smile which went with that remark. He placed the book upon the table, locked his powerful hands together, and, blinking slightly in the beams of the lantern, began to speak in the level, monotonous tone of the man who knows exactly what he must say, and with the air of one anxious to make haste with an unpleasant task.
"I didn't believe in this kind of thing once," he said. "I've lived hard and careless, and before I came here I done many a wrong. Nobody will ever hear me say that it wasn't right and just to put me here. It was coming to me. I deserved more'n I got. Since I've been locked up, I've had time to do a lot of thinking. I've had time to be sorry. I want to do what's right, mister. I want to go clean when my time comes, and not be afraid. There's something I want to know first."
He paused for a moment, and then, lowering his voice until it was no more than a whisper, put his question.
"Do you think, if a man has been a bad man, and wants to be square, and he's in dead earnest, he can—get a message from—the other side?"
The Great Gilmore said that sincerity was a prime requisite, and that previous conditions mattered little if the heart was right.
"And if I should get a message," persisted the convict, "how would it come? How would it get to me? What shape?"
The doctor was evidently much surprised.
"Have you never consulted a medium before?" he asked.
"Mister," said the convict earnestly, "I told you that I didn't use to believe in these things. If I ever saw one before, I didn't know it."
"Then I see I must explain everything from the beginning. Messages from the spirit land may come in many forms, according to the control. The ones which come through me are written while I am in a trance state."
"Written?" questioned the man. "How written? Regular stuff that a man could read?"
"Yes," said the doctor; "just ordinary writing. You understand, when I pass into a trance state, I am controlled by a spirit. That spirit has the power to communicate with other spirits and to direct the movement of my hand—to use it to write with while I am unconscious. When I come out of the trance state, I am, of course, unable to remember what has been written. My brain has been asleep. If the influences are right, the messages come of themselves. Now I have told you all I know about it. Where these messages come from, who sends them, why they are sent—I cannot say. Dishonest mediums sometimes claim to know more."
The convict sat in deep thought, rubbing his big hands nervously together.
"So that's the way!" he said at last. "All right, mister; I'm satisfied. Now I suppose first you'll have to know who I want to talk to, and what about." He spoke hesitatingly.
The Great Gilmore lifted a graceful hand in protest.
"I beg of you," he said earnestly, "to keep your secrets. Tell me absolutely nothing about yourself—nothing at all."
Moran gulped once and passed one hand over his face.
"That's—that's straight?" he asked at length. "You mean you don't want—I don't have to give no information nor nothing? Why, I thought I'd have to sort of—"
The man paused, struggling with a new thought. Relief, incredulity, and blank amazement were in his eyes.
"The less I know," said Gilmore, "the more perfect the spirit control should be. I came here simply in answer to your letter. You seemed to be in trouble. If I remember, it was something about property. Property might be anything, so my mind is open on that point. I know nothing of your past; I shall not ask you a single question about yourself. Once or twice men have made the mistake of talking too freely, and I have never been able, under such conditions, to deliver a message for them. It was their fault, not mine. If I knew what is in your mind, that knowledge might interfere with the true transmission of the message—subconscious mental action, we call it. My mind must be free and open. I must ask you, as a favor to me, not to talk about your case. Do you understand?"
Moran nodded his head, but his eyes showed that he was still bewildered. Slowly his muscles relaxed, as if tension had been removed. Evidently the man dreaded to talk, and was thankful to escape the ordeal of confession.
Gilmore spoke briskly.
"Now we are ready," he said. "I will place these sheets of paper upon the table, with this pencil. If I shall be successful in passing under control, you will know it at once by the movement of my hand. You must then place the pencil in my fingers, and if there is a message from the spirit land, it will be written on this paper."
"And do I read it?" asked Moran in a low voice.
"You read it and destroy it. I must warn you not to interfere in any way with the transmission of the message. I mean by that that you must not try to wake me. The shock to the nervous system might produce collapse. There have been cases where it has produced death. Simply watch your message. Now, if you will fix your mind upon the subject about which you wish to communicate, we will make the attempt. I hope we shall be successful, but one never knows in advance."